


Counterfactual

by PromisesArePieCrust



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-20
Updated: 2015-11-20
Packaged: 2018-05-02 13:35:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5250083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PromisesArePieCrust/pseuds/PromisesArePieCrust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phryne pulls back after a one-night stand with Jack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Counterfactual

What is that impulse which makes us want to pull back when we approach that which we want? A feeling of unworthiness? Certainty that if we are finally getting it, it must not be what we really want?

Phryne lay staring at the ceiling, alone in her bed, collecting her thoughts. She ran her hand over the cool sheets to her left, feeling the wrinkles which indicated a recent occupant. After more than a year of innuendo, teasing, and encouraging, Jack had lain there less than an hour ago. 

The sun was up now, but when they had begun the room had been very dark. She could only make out glimpses of his eyes then, somewhat feral, alarming and extremely arousing. She had to have guessed that her own visage was similarly brutal. The suddenness and intensity of their encounter had unravelled them both. But their coupling was more than rocking, licking, or moaning—it was more than any pieces of the act; she felt the whole of it and knew that it was something important. Even as she lay now, alone, staring at the ceiling, she felt the heaviness of her limbs, the burning at her cheeks, the sluggishness of her thinking, and the lightness in her chest. She felt this combination and knew what it was, what its common name is. She knew, and she felt certain that she wanted no part of it.

She considered a plan of action— a way to extract herself from his life neatly and thoroughly. She was a warmblooded woman, not prone to cruelty, and she certainly didn’t want to do him harm. Truth to tell, extraction was probably a more humane course of action than dragging him along in a relationship that was ultimately unsuitable. Knowing him and his proclivities and herself and her own, there was little to recommend themselves to each other. Doing her best to remember this, and not the warm, earnest longing in his parting this morning, she made a list and began to execute it.

*_*_*_*_*_*_*

Her preparations, in this endeavour as in any, were remarkably efficient—there were only a couple awkward encounters, one of which occurred in the early weeks of her operation. It was near a cafe, where he’d caught sight of her coincidentally and waived to get her attention. He jogged over to where she was preparing to meet her lunch date and took off his hat to address her, shuffling a bit.

“Miss Fisher! I was beginning to wonder if you’d left Melbourne.”

“Hello, Inspector. I would certainly consider it if the weather doesn’t improve. As it is, however, I’ve been swamped with cases.”

“None requiring police cooperation, I see.”

She simply smiled, not unkindly she thought, and looked around for her lunch company.

“It occurred to me, Miss Fisher, that you have always been the one to invite me to dinner, or your home. I wanted to offer…”

“That’s very kind…but…I would rather not. I see my lunch companion, if you’ll please excuse me, Inspector.”

She walked away unhurriedly, clutching her purse to control her tremor. 

*_*_*_*_*_*_*

Hiccoughs aside, however, in the months that followed, her plan began to work. Sometimes the lovers in her bed were actually the lovers in her bed, and not an imagined someone else. Sometimes she could see a mention of his name in the newspaper and not feel like she’d been punched in the chest. Sometimes most of a day would go by before she thought of him. 

Throwing herself into her work helped more than anything. She accepted any domestic dispute or minor case that came her way, the more trivial the better, since the likelihood it would require police interference dwindled. One cool May evening, she was following a lead on a stolen sculpture. The piece, a table top stylised nude made by the client’s grandmother, was more of sentimental value than monetary, and was uninsured. Within a couple of weeks, Phryne noticed a number of minor art thefts had been popping up in her work, and eventually realised that all of the pieces were considered “folk” art, largely made by untrained relatives and generally uninsured. She made a break in this case by following a particularly pompous dealer in “outsider art” she had interviewed to a warehouse as the autumn sun began to set.

She waited until the dealer was out of sight and tucked herself against a wall, behind a large crate. The dealer stood at the entrance, addressing a driver, then she heard his retreating footsteps and took the opportunity to look around. No sooner had she pried open the lid of a container than she heard a voice, a rumbling, soothing voice, a voice that threatened her grip on reality, which she heard calmly command “Collins, secure the back door.”

She was, for the first time in a very long time, unsure how to proceed. Surely they would find her, no matter how well she hid. Perhaps if she just kept out of sight, it would be one of the constables that found her and not he. As her internal debate continued, the decision was made for her as she saw a pair of shoes come into sight. She looked up and saw a face she thought she had forgotten, but in reality made her stomach flip even more dramatically for its absence. He didn’t say anything for several seconds, then he cleared his throat and tried for levity.

“Please tell me I won’t have to charge you as an accomplice.”

“I followed him here. Some clients have had pieces go missing.”

“I see.”

He knew, at seeing her, he should feel hurt, betrayed, angry, mislead by the months of flirtation only to be rebuffed once he gave in to her advances and made one of his own. He knew there were a host of things he should be feeling after her very obvious abandonment, but all he could feel was happy and a bit light headed. Despite this, he gave her his best attempt at a neutral look. She could hear the other policemen arresting her quarry and tried to focus her mind on professional matters.

“I have reason to believe four of my clients’ art works are among this haul. I will send over descriptions of the pieces and my case notes in the morning. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Inspector…”

“Phryne,” he whispered, unsure how to begin, but feeling he shouldn’t waste this opportunity. “Why did you leave?”

She froze. She slowly let her eyes meet his.

“Our partnership became something it shouldn’t have,” was all she could manage. She shifted, recognising the inadequacy of her assessment, but unable to elaborate. “Besides, for months you did your best to get me away from your crime scenes. I’d hoped you might feel some relief that you’d finally gotten your wish.”

“What shouldn’t our partnership have been? Were there rules we were meant to be following? I know how well you adhere to rules…” 

“You disapprove of me. That should make this easier.”

“Phryne, I don’t disapprove of you. And I didn’t ask anything of you.” He brought his palm to her upper arm, his voice low and restrained. “Why did you disappear?”

She shifted her gaze from one of his eyes to another, mindful of the feeling of his hand on her arm. Her mouth opened, but her mind became blank. They held this intense posture until they both startled at an anonymous voice: “We’re all set inspector. He’ll be yours for questioning.” “Thank you, Constable,” he acknowledged. When it became clear that the hubbub of the arrest had subsided and his absence would be noticed, he walked slowly and reluctantly out of view. She rubbed her hand at the spot where he had held her, aware of how cold the spot was now that he’d left. She pressed her back to the interior wall of the warehouse and did her best to keep her crying quiet.

*_*_*_*_*_*_*

After a restorative cry, there were two viable options for the night to proceed, she felt. The first was to drink herself silly, preferably with a friend. The second was to go dancing. Since Dot was out and Mac was working, she opted for dancing. She paid particular attention to her makeup, setting rhinestones and layering kohl. The more muck on her face, the less she thought she might be inclined to smear it with unwelcome emotions.

She threw on her coat and grabbed her clutch and began to head for the garage when she heard the knock at the front door. She didn’t have to guess who was outside her home; the knock was familiar enough. She considered that he would not know she was home, and she could simply wait a few minutes for him to leave before she herself left. But doing that would make her feel like a child, afraid of a boogeyman. She was a grown woman for heaven’s sake, and she could manage a conversation with a…a former lover, she guessed, if she were to call a spade a spade. She opened the door, her pasted smile concealing her tentativeness. 

“Hello, Inspector. Have you come for my case notes? I thought tomorrow might be good enough, but if you’re eager…”

“Stop it, Phryne,” he snarled. 

She jumped inwardly, but recovered herself quickly. “Well, I’m just off to celebrate a job well done, so if you don’t need anything, please…”

“Do me the courtesy of a thirty minute chat,” he interrupted her. “Please, Phryne.” She seemed unmoved, but he continued. “To pretend that night didn’t happen, wasn’t meaningful— it’s hurtful, it, it threatens my sanity, please,” he stuttered, trying to make his case without becoming overwhelmed or being overwhelming to her. 

She considered. Thirty minutes was… manageable. A manageable timeframe, after which she would feel clearer of conscience and more than ready to go dance away her pent up anxiety. Perhaps she could get him to agree and they could mutually decide to not notice each other. That would be much simpler, and all for only thirty minutes’ unpleasantness. 

“OK.” She stepped back to allow him into the foyer. 

“I think you’ve made some unfair assumptions,” he began.

“Wait, do you want a drink?”

“Not if I’m going to get everything I want to say into thirty minutes.” 

“Well then, please continue about my unfair assumptions.”

“Phryne, you’re being uncharacteristically ungenerous,” he scolded. She didn’t respond, but found something interesting to focus on at the wall behind him. His voice softened. “What happened? It feels like every nightmare of what I imagined might happen if I gave into my impulses, if I accepted your advances, but worse than I had imagined, because I’d assumed you’d at least act like an adult.”

She stiffened her spine and brought her gaze to his. “There is nothing juvenile about realising a situation is untenable and doing something to correct it.” 

“But how did you reach that conclusion? Without any input from me?”

“Inspector…”

“It feels like you’re twisting the knife when you call me ‘Inspector.’”

“Jack…” It was hard for her to say it. The last time she had was in the grip of ecstasy, and the memory came closer as she felt his name at her lips. She started to lose her grip, her voice cracking and wobbling. But she cleared her throat and maintained her poise. “Jack, you are not wrong that the night you mentioned was meaningful.” She closed her eyes against the images that swarmed her now, images of his bare shoulders as he hoisted her up, walking her to the bed, images of the kisses she had placed on those bare shoulders, of his silhouette as he hovered over her. When did she become so good at torturing herself?

He could see she was trying to recover from something. He attempted to further the conversation. “I’m only guessing of course, but I presume you…’found the situation untenable’…because we are very different? Am I getting close?” 

“Yes. And we love very differently,” she said, more than a little mournfully.

“We have loved differently in the past.” He cautiously stepped closer. “But I am not committed to a single way to love.” He hazarded a gesture which took both of her hands in his. 

“No, that’s not what I mean—well, yes, that is a problem too, isn’t it? That you would want something different, something more formal. But I was referring to… why is it so complicated to describe something that feels so certain…?” By now tears were falling and he could sense her frustration, but he was no closer to understanding what she was trying to tell him.

She tried to continue: “One becomes accustomed to one thing following another. One becomes accustomed to feeling love, and then believing it will be followed by something distasteful…” she trailed off, evaluating her own thought.

Jack was stunned with a realisation. As simply as that, his self-recrimination, imagined wrongdoing or believed general unloveability washed away in a great flood of relief. She was scared. She possibly loved him, and she was scared. He could have cried for joy. 

As he recognised it in her, she recognised it in herself. She was frightened of history repeating itself, no matter how unlikely. She thought of the soldiers responding to every sudden noise as an attack. One thing followed another in the past, so we extrapolate to the future. People are so good at drawing false conclusions. 

Once this linchpin of her reluctance was identified, she cried a little more, this time in relief at revealing a problem she didn’t know needed solving. She felt delighted and bold, eager to overcome a fear. Once spotted, faulty reasoning is easier to resolve than many problems.

“Will you come dancing with me, Jack Robinson?” she said with insouciant charm through her tears.

Her shift happened suddenly, but Jack was accustomed to Phryne thinking and moving with unequalled speed. He nodded with confusion, then realisation: “You mean right now?”

“Yes, I’ll just go freshen up.”

*_*_*_*_*_*_*

“I’ll warn you, my repertoire is rather limited,” he spoke lowly in her ear, as his hand moved firmly to her waist.

“I’ll warn you, I won’t be paying a stitch of attention to your dancing if you speak like that in my ear.” She gathered herself closer to him than was required for any couples dance he knew of, but he was in no mood to complain.

They spent several hours holding each other on the dance floor. He was not a creative dancer, she considered, but he did not trample her feet, and he had many other attributes to recommend him. Not the least of which was the fact that he was still dressed in his work clothes, his shirt holding the smells of him and his day. Or the subtle kisses he would brush at her cheek and ear. They didn’t sit once, even when the musicians took a break, and began to lean on each other like exhausted couples in a dance marathon, dancing really in name only.

“Should we go home?” she ventured finally, drowsily. They both knew the reason they were reluctant to leave. Here, on the dance floor, they could be intimate, but safely. Who knew what would happen once they were alone.

He allowed a few moments of silence before he spoke what was really on his mind. “I don’t think I would survive another few months like that, Phryne,” he said simply and sincerely. 

“I’m sorry,” she said with equal sincerity, and squeezed his torso to emphasise her apology. “I can’t say you won’t, but I can say unequivocally that I’m in love with you, Jack Robinson.”

She never did anything by halves, did she. Jack was a little stunned and felt his heartbeat quicken dramatically after the quiet, happy tranquility of their dancing.

“Should we go home?” she repeated.

He couldn’t respond, but leaned forward and kissed her with loose, soft lips, a kiss that made her groan, a kiss that took her breath and her reason. “OK,” he whispered hoarsely.

*_*_*_*_*_*_*

He really didn’t know what he was doing here, sitting at the foot of her bed, kissing her like he belonged here. He wasn’t even sure if it was real life. It would not surprise him if he woke up. 

She shifted herself to kneel in front of him for the dual purpose of getting his attention and keeping herself from being distracted from his clever lips on her neck. Her back was completely straight, her lips were red and swollen from their kissing, and her eyes were shining with purpose. “I know it seems like an unlikely and abrupt conversion,” she moved forward, insinuating herself between his legs, her breasts brushing to tops of his bare thighs, her arms wrapped around his waist. “But it’s not, Jack. I’ve always known how I felt. I just wasn’t clear what it would mean. That it could be a friendly thing.” It wasn’t precisely what she hoped to relay, but words were hard to rally and organise. She stretched up to capture his mouth and he accommodated her, bringing himself lower and lower, until they both slid to the floor. The carpet on her back countered the smoothness of his skin and muscle as he lay atop her. He smoothed his hand from the lowest part of her hip that he could reach to up, up, up, holding her jaw in his palm. It almost felt worth it, those agonising months, to feel, at last, so happy. “I love you too,” he murmured to her lips.


End file.
